


i used to live alone before i knew you

by tenderjock



Category: Batman - All Media Types, Justice League (2017), Superman - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, F/F, F/M, Minor Polyamorous Negotiations, No cheating, clark is a woman Because I Said So, everyone thinks theyre dating! but theyre not! right?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-28
Updated: 2018-12-28
Packaged: 2019-09-29 11:18:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,809
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17202494
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tenderjock/pseuds/tenderjock
Summary: Five times Bruce and Clark were not on a date and the one time they kinda were.OR: an exploration of Bruce and Clark's relationship over the course of one holiday season.





	i used to live alone before i knew you

**Author's Note:**

> first and foremost, s/o to Jenny iridescentoracle for letting me yell at her about this fic and being kind enough to beta it for me. i couldn't have done it without you!!
> 
> i originally set out to write a fic about the real-world ramifications of a world with a superwoman rather than a superman. this ... is not that fic. sorry. this fic is basically snippets from the ridiculously self-indulgent superbat romcom of my dreams.
> 
> some key points before you begin: although it's not explicitly mentioned, my clark is jewish; my bruce has schizoaffective disorder; all the named characters are bisexual; and while i didn't start this fic with the intention of writing trans woman clark joseph kent, i think she can definitely be read that way. fic title from hallelujah by leonard cohen.

ONE.

It was always a source of amazement to Clark, the things that stayed the same even in the aftermath of tragedy. The sky falls, and the next day people take a shower, go to the grocery store, walk their dogs, like nothing happened. It was a testament to human resilience, or at least their incredible ability to compartmentalize.

Which is to say: different day, same LexCorp event, although at least Lena Luthor had the decency to use normal champagne flutes instead of those ridiculous square ones that Lex favored.

Clark surveyed the crowd. It was the usual mix of journalists and socialites, nothing that she’d been a part of since –

Since –

“Kent!” someone calls, someone whose voice she recognized immediately.

She turned a flat look on Bruce Wayne. “Mr. Wayne, hello,” she says, because Ma Kent raised a daughter with manners, God damn it, and she would sooner go to her grave than not greet someone politely.

Go to her grave. A bad choice of words.

Bruce is smiling, but there’s something about it that looks forced. His eyes, maybe. She wonders how much it strains him to pretend – and how much of it is pretending – that he’s just a useless, shallow philanderer. He never seems happy; although maybe that’s just her. He certainly seems to have fooled everyone else. She half-turns away, so she can listen to him while keeping one eye on the podium in the center of the room.

“I heard that you’d retained your job at the Daily Planet,” Bruce says. “I’m glad to hear the rumor is true.”

Clark almost snorted, catching herself in time. She’s sure that Wayne has _heard_ it, given that he was the one who orchestrated the whole deal. The one that brought her back from the dead, both literally and legally speaking. “Yes,” she tells him shortly, then repents: “I’ve been offered my job back, with certain stipulations. But for all intents and purposes, I’m a Planet employee again.” She smiles, unconsciously; for all her reservations about the matter, Wayne has done a beautiful job of restoring her life.

She glances at him. He appears – hesitant, almost. She didn’t know hesitant was an emotion Bruce Wayne did.

“Come work for me,” Bruce says. Clark shakes her head.

“I think, technically, I already work for you,” she says.

“Not for the Daily Planet,” he says, with just an edge of frustration. She imagines that neither Bruce Wayne nor Batman is used to hearing ‘no’. “For me. In Gotham.”

“I’m flattered.”

“That’s not a yes.”

“No,” she agrees, “It’s not.” Clark stares down into her drink for a moment before tipping back the last dregs of champagne.

“Listen, I appreciate the offer,” she tells him, “but I won’t leave the Planet. And I won’t leave Metropolis, either.”

Clark places her glass on a waiting tray, which is immediately whisked away by one of the bow-tied waiters in attendance. She glances up at the podium, and is suddenly struck by the symmetry of it all – the Luthor event, the champagne that costs more than she makes in a month at the Planet, the way Bruce smiles when he’s irritated. The inevitable argument brewing between them. She sighs, quietly, to herself, and turns away to go do some actual reporting.

“Wait,” Bruce says, then waves someone over to them. Clark glances at the two men coming towards them – Commissioner Gordon, who she has met before, although only in the cape, and a younger, dark-haired man. The two of them look insatiably curious, although Gordon is doing a better job of hiding it.

Bruce grips the younger man’s shoulder. “This is my ward, Dick Grayson. And Commissioner Gordon – have you two met? Clark here currently works for the Daily Planet.”

“Currently?” Clark asks, not sure whether to be annoyed or amused. It seems to be a common mixture of emotion when dealing with Bruce.

She holds out her hand to shake. “Commissioner, Mr. Grayson. Clark Kent, with the Daily Planet.”

“Please, just Dick is fine,” Grayson says. “Clark Kent – you wrote that article on pollution and the housing market in Metropolis, didn’t you?”

“I did, yes,” Clark says, grinning. “And if I’m calling you Dick, then you should call me Clark.”

“Clark it is,” Dick says. “I’m a big fan.”

“Well,” Clark drawls, playing up the country accent, “it’s always nice to meet a fan.” Dick laughs.

Bruce, who has been conversing quietly with Commissioner Gordon, looks up in something that is perilously close to genuine panic.

“You two aren’t friends,” Bruce says.

“I don’t know,” Dick says, clapping Clark on the shoulder, then being momentarily distracted by the muscle under her cheap white button-down. “Hmm. I think we’re becoming friends.”

“Yeah, definitely,” Clark chimes in. “Becoming friends at a very fast rate. Almost immediately.”

They grinned at each other, filled with the sense of accomplishment that only comes from successfully pissing a third party off.

Bruce frowns at them, then turns back to Commissioner Gordon.

“So, Clark,” Dick says, beaming at her. She turns away from Bruce to look at him. “I’ll admit, I don’t know much about Metropolis. In your article, you mentioned the residents of Suicide Slum being the primary victims of the pollution –“

Clark nods, slightly distracted. Bruce has returned to flirting outrageously with the pretty blonde waitress while Commissioner Gordon watches in mild exasperation. Clark glances over at the two of them and can’t help but think that she would never understand Bruce. How a man could be two opposing people at the same time was beyond her, and that’s coming from a person who regularly took off her glasses, put on a cape, and gallivanted around in a skin-tight bodysuit.

She realizes that Dick is waiting for her to answer his question. She clears her throat and jams the glasses back up her nose. “Well, yes, the poorer districts of Metropolis were disproportionately affected. Obviously that’s something that the mayor has talked about addressing, but there was never any public reaction to the issue until now.”

She could deal with Bruce and his attitude about her later. Right now, she had an event to cover.

: :

It’s 2:47 in the morning and Clark cannot sleep for the life of her.

The life of her. Another bad phrase to use.

Clark rolls over and, careful not to wake Lois, makes her way to the kitchen and out the window, onto the fire escape. She slides the window back closed behind her and takes a moment to stare out at the empty street.

The phone rings four times. There’s a two-hour time difference, but it’s still late in Kansas. When Ma picks up, she sounds groggy. “Sorry,” Clark whispers, suddenly embarrassed that her first instinct was to run to her mother.

“Not sorry enough to let me sleep in peace,” Ma says, then laughs a little like she can see Clark’s blush. “No, Josie, sweetheart, you know you can give me a ring whenever. I don’t mind.”

“I just.” Clark frowns down at her knees. It was cold enough in Metropolis this time of year that people were starting to wear scarves and gloves. The cold didn’t mean much to Clark; it couldn’t touch her the way it did to normal people.

Sometimes it felt like nothing could touch her. It wasn’t a pleasant feeling.

“You just?” Ma prompts, and Clark is choked with a sudden sense of gratitude for this woman. This woman who found a baby in her corn field and gave it a home, a place to learn and laugh and grow. If Superwoman was the world’s hero, then Ma was her hero.

“I talked to somebody tonight,” Clark says. “An – ally, is probably how he would put it. And, I don’t know, with the League forming, it’s great to have people around who know me, understand me. Who have some sort of powers, so they’re not afraid of me. But it –“ Clark pauses.

“What’s wrong, sweetheart?” Ma asks.

Clark rubs her eyes. “I don’t know,” she admits. “It seems like – I know this is silly, but it feels like the more people I have around me, the more alone I am.”

“Oh, Josie,” Ma sighs over the telephone. There’s grainy silence for a moment; if she listens, Clark can hear the crickets chirping out in Ma’s vegetable garden; if she listens, she can hear the worms turning in the earth, all the way from Metropolis. She’s sick of fucking listening.

“This somebody,” Ma says carefully, “He wouldn’t happen to be a big fan of black Kevlar, would he?”

“Ma,” Clark says, smiling a little bit, unwillingly. She lets out a long, exasperated sigh, watching the breath curl away from her in a cloud of white into the night sky.

“Well, _somebody_ happens to be someone I’ve gotten to know fairly well while you were – gone, and that _somebody_ happens to be a fine, upstanding young man.”

“Not too young,” the petty part of Clark says. But: “I know he’s a good guy – that he’s one of the good guys. It just feels like we’re butting heads every time one of us opens our mouths. And I don’t know how I’m supposed to run this team if I can barely have a civil conversation with one of its founding members.”

“My darling, Josie,” Ma says, then pauses for a moment like she’s collecting her thoughts. “Do you trust him?”

“Of course I trust him,” Clark says, rather indignant at the implied accusation. “He’s my teammate.”

Ma nods; Clark can hear the swing of her hair, the shift of her collar, the muscles flexing in her neck. “That’s the important part, Josie-girl. The rest comes later. You don’t have to like someone to work with them, but you do have to trust them. The other parts will come, once you get to know your teammates.”

Clark rubs at her eyes, suddenly feeling like the last twenty-four hours are crushing her. She leans in the kitchen window to check the microwave clock. _3:16_ blinks at her in blocky green numbers.

“I should go,” she says, reluctantly. Ma laughs, just a bit.

“Don’t you have work in the morning?” she scolds. “You need to get some rest, Josie.”

“Ma,” Clark says, in something close to a whine. “You know I don’t need to sleep.”

“And I know if you don’t get any sleep at all, you’re as grumpy as anything,” Ma shoots back. “Bed. Now.”

Clark gives a few more grumbles, for posterity’s sake, but climbs back into the kitchen and carefully closes the window, so as not to wake Lois, who definitely needs the sleep more than she does.

“Love you,” she says. Ma smiles over the phone; Clark can’t hear it, but she can tell from the tone of her next words that she’s got a big, proud grin on her face, the kind that always embarrassed Clark as a kid.

“Love you muchly, Josie-girl. Have a nice evening – morning – whichever.” Clark laughs.

Ma continues: “Remember – it’s a process. You can’t expect to like all of these people right off the bat. Relationships take time, and effort. You have to put in as much as they put in.

“The important thing – the most important thing, and you listen to me, Josie, is that you trust each other. Everything else can be built on that. But trust is how you start.”

_Trust is how you start_. Well. She could work with that.

TWO.

It’s a perfectly normal evening in Gotham – a few muggings, an overdose that might have ties to Scarecrow, a gang-related shooting – which should have been Batman’s first warning that something was going to happen. He’s perched on the roof of the Gotham Cathedral, a gargoyle in the night, when Superwoman drifts out of nowhere and settles down beside him, holding out a bag of Thai take-out like a peace offering.

When he gives her a look, she shrugs. “You smelled hungry,” she says. She settles on the edge of the roof without even glancing at the distance from the ground. “Fork or chopsticks?”

Batman snags the chopsticks out of her hand. “Smelled?”

She nods but offers no additional explanation. Perhaps he shouldn’t be surprised – but that adds a whole new wrinkle to his theories about Kryptonian capabilities.

Batman lets the silence drag out for a minute before asking, “Did I tell you that you could come to my city?” The accusation probably would have sounded more ferocious if he didn’t have a mouthful of food at the time. Alfred would kill him for talking with his mouth full.

Speaking of Alfred: there was, of course, the possibility that Alfred had sent her to – babysit him. Batman would have to have words with him if that were the case. Not that he had ever actually won an argument with Alfred, but it was the principle of the thing.

Superwoman shrugs. “I wanted to show you something,” she says, briefly juggling the cartons of food until she can reach into the pouch at her belt and pull out a wrinkled newspaper.

The front page of the Daily Planet is taken up by a half-page photo of the two of them. Superwoman is caught taking a step back off of the roof of a building – the Metropolis courthouse, Batman recognizes it. In the photograph, Batman is standing with his back to the camera, but the tilt of his head indicates that he’s looking up at her.

“ _World’s finest duo_ ,” Batman reads. He frowns at the paper open in his lap.

“That’s us, you know,” Superwoman says through a mouthful of pad thai. “We’re two sides of the same coin, apparently.” It’s difficult to ascertain what she feels about that; for someone who acts and speaks so genuinely all the time, Superwoman can be remarkably opaque.

“Two sides of the same coin?” Batman repeats.

Superwoman nods. “Page five, paragraph two."

Batman flips to the right page. _Superwoman and the Gotham Bat are best described as two sides of the same coin; powerful vigilante forces who take their trade in opposing directions …_

“Huh,” Batman says. “’Vigilante’. I thought the Planet was generally more sympathetic towards you. Aren’t you Metropolis’s pet heroine?”

Superwoman snorts around a mouthful of noodles. “You haven’t been reading the Planet much recently, have you?”

Batman frowns out at the night sky. He has been letting his awareness of things happening in Metropolis slip a little, since Superwoman – returned. He made a mental note to follow up on it.

“You know, I’d never been to Gotham before – well, all that stuff last year. But I worked in Gotham City, Nevada, for eight months,” Superwoman says, apropos of nothing. Batman hums in acknowledgement while trying to fish a piece of cauliflower from the bottom of a take-out box.

“Yeah,” Superwoman says, contemplating the Gotham skyline. “In Vegas, right? Bartending. I had to wear this, this slutty death mistress outfit.” Batman almost inhales the cauliflower floret and coughs, struggling not to laugh.

Superwoman looks at him. The corner of her mouth ticks up, and she leans over to grab the carton from him. “So,” she drags out, abandoning the carton after ascertaining that it was empty. “Let’s get some icebreakers going here. You go first.”

Batman considers that for a second. “Why are we icebreaking?”

“Because, Bruce,” Superwoman says, “We’re teammates. We have to know each other. If we want the League to succeed, we’re going to have to talk.”

“And knowing my – my favorite flavor of ice cream is vital to the League’s success.”

“Exactly,” Superwoman says. “I knew you would get it, you’re a smart guy.”

Batman hums quietly to himself. ‘Smart guy’ is a bit of an understatement, but he lets it slide. He considers Superwoman for a moment more. She’s holding herself confidently, but her eye contact is skittering around. He’s still not entirely sure what her purpose here is, but whatever she intends, it’s making her nervous.

“Vanilla,” he says. Superwoman blinks. “My favorite ice cream,” he clarifies.

“Whose favorite flavor of ice cream is vanilla?” she says. She tosses a bottle of water to Batman, who catches it deftly. His initial suspicion, that she was sent here by Alfred to look after him, returns.

Batman raises an eyebrow – she can’t see it under the lead-lined cowl, but he feels better for having done it. “And let me guess. Your favorite ice cream is butter pecan?”

Superwoman’s eyes narrow. “What’s wrong with butter pecan?” she asks, rather defensively.

“Nothing,” Batman says, “If you crave blandness.”

“Oh, I see,” Superwoman says, “Mr. Vanilla is going to lecture me about flavor.”

“I wouldn’t call myself vanilla,” Batman says, and then instantly regrets it when Superwoman shoots him a look. She doesn’t comment, though, instead gesturing towards the red curry. He hands it over.

A silence falls between them. Batman would expect it to be awkward; it’s not.

“It’s okay,” he says, quietly. Superwoman glances at him in askance. He makes a gesture that encompasses the two of them and the still night in its entirety. “If you want to – stop by, in Gotham. You’re welcome here.”

“Really?” It’s hard to read Superwoman’s tone. Batman nods, then climbs to his feet, detaching a grappling hook from his belt.

Superwoman watches him dubiously. “You want help with that?” she asks.

“You know, I’ve been doing this a lot longer than you have,” he tells her.

She raises her hands, halfway between apologetic and amused. “I’ll go,” she says, gathering the take-out containers and shoving them into a paper bag – Metropolis went plastic-free last year. “Here, give me that.” He hands over the last carton, which she adds to the rest of the trash. She clambers her way to a standing position with her arms full.

Superwoman hesitates for a moment, completely unnecessarily. “See you around?” she asks. There’s a – tension to her voice, like she’s seriously waiting on the answer, like they haven’t been running into each other on a weekly basis, either in the capes or out of them. Batman nods, a little jerkily, instead of saying goodbye.

Superwoman smiles and steps out into empty air, cape curling around her. “’Bye, Bruce,” she says, and then is gone, with only the shuddering stained glass of the Cathedral in the wake of her sonic boom to show that she had been there.

Batman looks at the grappling hook he’d removed from his belt and sighs. At this rate, he’d be back home by three. It was just his luck; the villains never showed up when you needed to get out of a personal conversation.

He shifts on the balls of his feet, ignoring the ache in his knees. The cold rain didn’t do his joints any favors. It was days like these that made him give the thought of retiring, someday, some consideration.

But there was – something, about Clark. Something nagging at him. It wasn’t that they were two sides of the same coin. The steel of them, deep down, it was the same.

He took a step into the darkness at the edge of the roof, snapping out the grappling hook and catching himself at the apex of the fall. This alliance with Superwoman was going to work out; he didn’t consider a future in which it didn’t. There would be time to iron out the wrinkles.

He throws himself into another swing, and for a moment, feels weightless.

THREE.

When it happens, it’s on a bleak fall morning in northern California.

“Get _back_ ,” Superwoman grinds out. She sounds like she’s in pain. Batman and Aquaman share a doubtful look.

They aren’t the only ones. Wonder Woman raises her shield against a spray of shrapnel. “No,” she says, equal parts concern and crystalline determination, “You’ll be overrun.”

“Just do it!” Superwoman says. Her body is a bent bow against the flat gray of the pre-dawn sky. Her voice shakes on the last syllable. Wonder Woman hesitates for another moment, then leaps clear of the last parademon.

For a moment, it seems that her command has turned terribly wrong; the parademons swarm Superwoman, clouding the skies like a plague of locusts. For a moment, it seems like a mistake – and then, something happens.

Batman isn’t sure how to describe it. A blast of red-hot energy bursts out of the place where Superwoman is hovering low in the sky. It’s heat, and light, and sound, all rolled up in one. Every parademon caught in its path is burned to a crisp. It makes his ears ring and his eyes water and knocks him off of his feet, and he’s far back from the edge of it. Closer to the epicenter, Wonder Woman holds her shield protectively over the Flash.

At the center of the blast, Superwoman hangs still in the sky for a moment and then, abruptly – falls to the ground, limp.

Batman pulls himself to his feet again slowly, feeling every inch of his body ache. Behind him, Aquaman groans as he stands up. Superwoman remains in a crumpled heap on the ground. Batman breathes in and then out again, ignoring the way his stomach twists. “Wonder Woman,” he says; the dead air over his earpiece indicates that whatever just happened, it took out the comms, but Wonder Woman waves her acknowledgement.

The Flash blurs to Superwoman’s side, gently prodding her shoulder. She doesn’t move. Bruce finds it suddenly hard to breathe. Wonder Woman finishes trudging through the burnt corpses of the parademons and bends to gather Superwoman in her arms. She vaults herself into the air and lands lightly next to the Batmobile.

“She’s alive,” Wonder Woman says, and some of the tension leaves Bruce’s shoulders. “Unconscious, but her pulse is steady and her breathing is clear.” She lays Superwoman across the hood of the Batmobile. Bruce steps in and catches her wrist, checking her pulse for himself.

“So, uh,” the Flash appears next to Diana. “No offense, but what – what the _fuck_ was that?”

Cyborg lands beside him. “It was some kind of energy – the same variety as her heat vision. Huh.”

“What is it?” Batman snaps, tearing his gaze away from the still form of Superwoman.

“She’s completely used up,” Cyborg says. “There’s barely a trace of solar energy in her system.”

Superwoman stirs at his last word. All five of them lean in. She blinks slowly and tries – and fails – to push herself up to a sitting position. “Hey, guys,” she says.

“How do you feel?” Wonder Woman asks, placing a gentle hand on her shoulder.

“I feel – not great,” Superwoman admits. She tries to sit up again but only makes it halfway there before her arms collapse under her. “What happened?” she asks.

“You unleashed a surge of energy and depleted all of your solar power in the process,” Cyborg says. He’s still scanning Superwoman, although he’s being a little more covert about it now that she’s awake.

Superwoman frowns. “Did I know I could do that?” she asks.

“No,” Batman says.

“Did _you_ know I could do that?”

“No.”

Superwoman narrows her eyes. “Are you mad at me?”

Batman glances around at the rest of the League. They’re all staring at him; Wonder Woman is smiling, just with the corner of her mouth, and the Flash has a look on his face like he’s watching a train wreck in progress. “I’m fine,” he growls. “Get in the car.”

Wonder Woman has to bodily lift Superwoman into the passenger seat of the Batmobile. She flops her head to the side to look at Batman as he sits down. He flexes his hands for a moment over the steering wheel, trying to get himself under control. Once Aquaman and Wonder Woman are securely perched on top of the Batmobile, Batman pulls out and starts driving to find the nearest airfield that won’t mind a military-grade private jet in their airspace.

“Pull over,” Superwoman suddenly says. Batman yanks the wheel and comes to a stop in front of – In ‘n Out.

“What are we doing here?” Aquaman says, jumping to the ground.

“I’m starving,” Superwoman says, and then: “Wait!” as she clambers out of the passenger seat of the Batmobile and nearly breaks her neck when she stumbles on the edge of her cape. She recovers less-than-gracefully and takes a few shaky steps. “Okay. What do you guys want?”

“Flash,” Batman says, but the Flash and Wonder Woman are already there, catching Superwoman under each arm. She flaps her hands uselessly at them. It’s unclear whether this gesture is meant to be reassuring or insulting.

“Seriously,” Superwoman says, “I’m buying. Well, B’s buying, but I’m using his money.”

Wonder Woman considers her for a moment and then shrugs. The Flash, who looks absolutely thrilled to be using Batman’s money to buy junk food, launches into the litany of things that he wants. Bruce inhales through his nose and makes a concerted effort to release his hands from fists. Everyone was fine. That’s what mattered. It didn’t mean – that moment, there, as she – _falls to the ground, limp_ – it didn’t mean anything. She was _fine_.

“Hey, B, what do you want?” Superwoman asks. She’s giving him an expectant look but he finds he can suddenly not trust his voice.

He shakes his head instead of answering. “You sure? No, no, it’s good, I got you,” Superwoman says, finger-gunning at him. It is probably meant to be reassuring; Batman’s trepidation about the whole affair cranks up a few notches.

He watches skeptically as Superwoman insists on walking under her own steam to the counter, where she then beams at the cashier, a teenage girl with purple hair who looks entirely unprepared for what’s about to happen. Aquaman snorts and sits on the hood of the Batmobile. Batman resists the urge to snarl at him; maybe he really is getting better at this teamwork thing.

A few minutes later, Superwoman staggers out, clutching bags full of food, with Wonder Woman spotting.

When they get back to the car, Superwoman rifles through the bags and starts handing things out. The Flash gets three whole bags of burgers and fries; Wonder Woman and Cyborg each get a soda; Aquaman gets the Flying Dutchman; and Batman –

Superwoman holds out a milkshake. “Here,” she says, before digging into her own meal with gusto.

Batman takes a sip. _Vanilla_. He ducks his head to hide his smile.

FOUR.

Batman liked to prepare. He spent hours of his life, every day, preparing for any eventually that he considered even remotely possible. And sometimes he felt, living in Gotham, that the entire world conspired against him to test that preparedness.

He wasn’t prepared for the sight of Superwoman in the Cave, cape detached from her shoulders and turned into a makeshift bundle in her arms. Her hair is half-undone from its braid and there are bruise-dark shadows under her eyes. She’s also covered in a fine layer of ash. She looks like shit.

“You look like shit,” Batman says.

“Thanks.” She slings the package in her arms onto the desk in front of him. “Happy birthday.”

Batman picks at the edge of the cape, curious despite himself. “My birthday’s in February.”

“Happy early birthday, then,” Superwoman says. “Does this mean I don’t have to get you anything?”

Batman tugs the cape open and leans in for a better look at the odd – almost certainly alien in origin – black flower-like object. “Watch out –“ Superwoman warns, “It’s still –“

The nearest appendage shoots out, only missing Batman’s face due to his quick reflexes, honed from years of raising children. “Still alive,” Superwoman finishes, tugging Batman back a few paces.

“What is it?” he asks, fascinated.

“It’s a plant, kind of,” Superwoman says. “When it latches on to you, it creates a dream world tailored to each victim, and traps you there.”

“Huh,” Batman says. He uses a pen to gently prod on of the thing’s – tentacles would probably be the best word. It recoils and squirms unpleasantly on the stainless steel surface. “What did your dream world show you?” Superwoman stares at him for a long moment before turning away.

“Anyway,” she says, voice a little rough, “I figured you would appreciate having a new toy to play with.”

He would, actually. He’s reached something of a dead end in the Scarecrow case; nothing he can do but wait and see how the dice fall.

Superwoman collapses into the seat next to him. Close up, she looks even worse – tired and drawn, with clammy skin and speckles of dark mud like freckles. He rummages in his desk briefly and finds a package of baby wipes, left there by Alfred after one-too-many nights of Batman tracking mud into the lakehouse.

“Krypton,” Superwoman says quietly. She’s staring blankly at the flower, writhing on his desk. When Batman looks at her, she attempts a smile. It comes out pained. “It showed me Krypton.”

Wordless, he hands her the baby wipes. She takes them after a moment and begins to clean up her face.

Slightly unsure of what to do – he’s never really been a people person, and he doubts Superwoman would react well to the billionaire Brucie Wayne treatment right now – Batman turns back to his monitors. Scarecrow has been spotted in three areas of the East End, but there have been cases of hallucinogens bearing his trademark popping up in Midtown, as well.

He gets lost in his work; he always has. He prefers to think of it less as a flaw and more of a personality trait that gets more finely honed with every passing day. However, it means that when Alfred comes down to the Cave an hour later, bearing a tray of freshly baked scones and coffee and orange juice, it takes Batman a few seconds to tear himself away from the computer screen.

He opens his mouth to ask Alfred about the chemical composition breakdown of Scarecrow’s latest drug, but Alfred holds a finger to his mouth urgently and then gestures to Superwoman in the chair beside him.

Batman looks at her. Superwoman sits with her head pillowed in her arms, fast asleep on the desk. He sighs and tugs off the cowl.

“According to eyewitness accounts,” Alfred murmurs, carefully setting the tray down so as to not rattle the contents, “She’s been assisting firefighters in the Camp fire since yesterday morning. Several hours ago, she was seen fighting an as-of-yet unidentified person in northern New Jersey, near Newark. I would say that she’s had something of a trying day.”

“I thought she looked a little peaky,” Bruce says. He reaches out to brush a lock of hair from her face, then thinks better of it at the last moment. Instead he sits down and reaches for a scone.

Without him having to say a word, Alfred sets the paperwork regarding the Scarecrow case on the part of the desk that doesn’t have a sleeping Kryptonian on it. Even for her size, she seems to be taking up much more space than she needs.

Batman slides the papers over next to the keyboard and gets back to work, half of a scone hanging out of his mouth. He’s not entirely sure how long he takes – first running the necessary paperwork for the Scarecrow case, then following the BOLO for Harley Quinn, and finally scraping samples from the plant that Superwoman brought him to run an analysis. At some point, without him realizing it, Dick has come down to the Cave and is seated on the edge of the counter (black granite countertops edged with stainless steel; for the kitchen that he had installed when Alfred started refusing to feed him until he deigned to come up to the lakehouse up above).

Dick waves without look up from angry birds on his phone. Bruce grunts. That’s pretty much the extent of their interactions for the past seven years, so Bruce considers his part done.

He stands up to get the results for the plant, which is in the laboratory on the other side of the cave, and is met with unexpected resistance. Bruce glances down. Superwoman was still knocked out, grasping on the edge of his cape in her sleep. Bruce considers this state of affairs for a moment, then sighs and settles back in his seat, one hand coming up to absentmindedly stroke her hair.

Dick was giving him a funny look. “What?”

“You know she’s married,” Dick says. Bruce adjusts the loose papers on his desk so that the edges form a straight line.

“I know. I was at her wedding.”

“She’s also like ten years younger than you,” Dick says. “Not that that’s ever stopped you before.”

Bruce frowns at him. “What’s your point?”

“Hmm, nothing,” Dick says. “Just making sure you remembered.”

Bruce glances at Superwoman before tugging the cape out of her hand. She shifts a little in her sleep but doesn’t wake up. He closes the unnecessary tabs on the monitors, piles the paperwork neatly, and double-checks the results on the Quinn case. With a nod to Dick, who is back on his phone and doesn’t notice, Bruce heads up to the lakehouse for a real meal.

But not before sliding the plate of scones and orange juice a little closer to Superwoman, so that they’re the first thing she sees when she wakes.

Just in case she wants some, is all.

: :

Dawn finds him unable to sleep. Bruce is out on the lakehouse balcony overlooking the water, smoking, when the door slides open behind him. Without turning, he asks, “Feeling better?”

Clark joins him in leaning against the railing. “Yeah,” she admits. “Sorry for crashing on you – it was _so_ rude, my mom would have murdered me –“

Bruce takes a hit, then offers the joint to Clark. She waves it away. He shrugs and takes another hit.

“It’s fine,” he says. “I heard you’ve had quite the couple of days.”

Clark grimaces. “Perry’s probably going to chew me out – I’ve been neglecting my journalistic duties, but the fires in California are so bad – it’s not like I have much choice.”

Bruce blows out a lungful of smoke and says, “You know, if you worked directly for Wayne Enterprises, that wouldn’t be an issue.”

“As long as I was under your thumb the whole time?” Clark says. Her tone is joking but her eyes are a flat glacier blue.

“You wouldn’t be –“ Bruce stops, unsure of what to say. That doesn’t happen very often; it seems like the only times it’s happened recently are with Clark. He stares out at the pink light of dawn breaching the horizon. He doesn’t know how to make Clark understand the thing that he’s only recently began to feel. That the two of them, together, could do anything that they set their minds to.

“I’m not – saying this to try to pressure you into anything,” he says, haltingly. “I don’t want you to feel – trapped, or cornered. I just think – that we could do something, something great together.” Bruce ducks his head, waiting for a reaction to that little declaration. When he doesn’t get one, he looks up. Clark is smiling, just a little, watching the sunrise. Without turning away from the new dawn light, she reaches out and catches his free hand, squeezes.

“Bruce,” she says, squeezing his hand again. “I know,” she says, and then: “We can. We will.”

Bruce lets out a slow breath that he hadn’t realized he was holding. Clark gave him a smile, a full, real one this time, the kind that could blind a person if not seen through a proper lens, and leaned over to snag the joint out of his other hand. “I wouldn’t have pegged you for a pothead,” she says, before taking a long drag.

“It’s good for joint pain,” Bruce says, and then, because Clark looked like she was on the verge of asking him how his knees were doing (the answer was: badly), follows it up with: “I heard you got into a throwdown in North Jersey this morning.” A _throwdown_ , Christ. This is what smoking pot did to him.

Clark laughed. “Yeah, it was fun. Nobody got hurt, minimal property damage, and Mogul got away, but not before I kicked his ass, if I do say so myself.”

“That’s good,” Bruce says, and then: “That’s good.” Clark is still holding his hand and he finds that he doesn’t – mind it, really. He doesn’t mind it at all.

FIVE.

Clark is out on the fire escape, hiding from the party.

The scuff of Italian leather loafers on icy pavement makes her look up. Bruce stands at the corner, squinting at the gray sky like there’s something important up there, hidden in the snowy clouds. His shoes are getting wet but he doesn’t seem to notice.

“I thought you weren’t going to show,” Clark says. She can feel her mouth fighting not to smile.

“Well,” Bruce says, still staring at nothing. _Well_ , like that’s a reason in and of itself. His face is almost – almost – impassive, but she can read a little bit of awkward uncertainty in his eyes. It occurs to Clark that she’s never seen Bruce completely disengaged; he manages his feelings very tightly, but there has always been the undercurrent of wild emotion in everything that he does. Clark wonders what it must be like to live like that – surely he must get tired of it, of feeling everything so deeply. God knows she gets tired of it, herself.

She listens for a moment. The road is empty and the windows lining the street are clear of people. She waves Bruce up onto the fire escape with her. He comes over, jumps, catches the lowest rung of the fire escape and swings himself up all in one fluid motion.

She leans in the kitchen window to snag herself a couple of beers. She offers one to Bruce, who shakes his head. Shrugging, she sets it down on the fire escape next to where she’s sitting. At the very least, it’ll stay cold.

“It’s good to see you,” Clark says. The smile she was fighting earlier returns.

“Is it?” Bruce says. He picks up the beer and fiddles with the label. Then, like he’s suddenly remembered how to have human conversation: “It’s good to see you, too.”

Clark watches him for a moment. Now that she can see him up close, he seems – frazzled. She asks, “Are you doing okay?”

Bruce pauses in his quest to shred the label off the bottle of beer. “I – don’t know,” he says.

“You don’t know if you’re okay?”

“It’s been a rough day,” Bruce says, frowning at the paper scraps he’s created. He amends it after a moment: “Rough week. Alfred made me come tonight, to relax.”

“Well,” she says, and then stops. _Well_ , like that’s enough. It might be; God knows Bruce is good at reading between the lines. Too good, sometimes.

They’ve never talked about this, this thing where Bruce gets sharp and jumpy out of nowhere, or the pills that she’s seen on his desk in the Batcave. She’s struck with the urge to – say something, do something. “Icebreakers,” she says. Bruce shakes off his moodiness long enough to shoot her a skeptical look.

“Okay,” Clark says, casting her thoughts around for a conversational topic. “Here’s a secret: sometimes I pretend not to know things that I actually know just to see how long it’ll take people to catch on that I’m messing with them.”

“How does that work?” Bruce asks, amused.

“Well, Jimmy – Jimmy-from-work Jimmy, not Jimmy-from-the-hurricane-relief Jimmy – once spent thirty-five minutes explaining Christmas to me. It was the funniest thing that’s ever happened to me.”

Bruce raises an eyebrow. “Aren’t you supposed to be the nice one?”

Clark laughs. “Who told you that?” she says. Bruce snorts and turns back to the empty street.

A still silence falls between them. Clark closes her eyes and opens up her hearing. The Garcías are throwing a party in the apartment building next door; Susan is swearing softly at her keys as she picks them back up from where she’s dropped them in the snow; someone’s cat is meowing to be let out.

“I brought –“ Bruce says suddenly, and pulls a whole bottle of wine out of the inside pocket of his coat. Clark startles into a laugh.

“How did that fit in there?” she asks, taking the bottle. _Château Pontet-Canet._ It’s a red, she knows that much, but beyond that she’s lost. Lois will probably appreciate it.

“Men’s pockets,” Bruce says.

“Ah,” Clark says. And then: “Now you go.” Bruce raises an eyebrow. She elaborates, “Something I don’t know about you, that I should.”

Bruce thinks about it for a second. “My dentist thinks I’m in a fight club,” he says.

“That’s not … entirely untrue,” Clark says, slowly. Before she can continue, there’s a banging at the window.

Lois is standing inside, holding a box of crackers and wearing an unimpressed expression on her face. She starts talking before Clark is finished opening the window. “We’re out of fudge,” she says.

Clark frowns. “I made two trays of fudge, we can’t be out." Lois shakes the box of crackers for emphasis.

“I can’t find the second tray,” she says, punctuated by the rattling box.

“Oh, right,” Clark remembers, “I put it on the top shelf so you and Jimmy wouldn’t eat it all.”

Lois purses her lips. “Taking advantage of short people, is that really how you want to enter the holiday season?” Clark laughs. Bruce shifts a little awkwardly, which reminds Clark that she’s still holding the bottle of wine. “Here,” she says, handing it over to Lois. “Lo, you’ve met Bruce, right?”

“Briefly,” Lois says. Then: “Huh,” as she reads the wine label. “Do you want a glass?” she says, glancing at Bruce.

“That would be great,” he says. Clark gets the impression that, if he has to interact with other people, he would like nothing more than to be drunk while doing it.

She waves Bruce in the window and then clambers inside behind him. The kitchen is half-lit by the string of blue lights hanging at the window and the stovetop light. Clark straightens to her full height and finds herself nose-to-nose with Bruce. The soft light of the kitchen cuts sharp lines across his jaw and cheekbones and casts shadows of his eyelashes on his face.

Bruce blinks, and she watches the light play across his face, leans in and –

“I’m back,” Lois calls out as she re-enters into the kitchen, this time holding two glasses of red.

The moment shatters. Clark steps back and focuses on breathing normally. She smiles at Lois, kind of reflexively.

“I need to cut the fudge,” Clark says, swigging the last of her beer. “I’ll have it to you in five minutes.”

“Okay, babe,” Lois says, and pops onto her toes to give Clark a kiss on the cheek before returning to the party. Out of the corner of her eye, Clark sees Bruce look away and take a generous gulp of his wine.

Clark slides the fudge off of the high shelf and takes out a large knife to cut it with. Bruce stands at the counter until she shoots him a pointed look and gestures to the bar stool next to him. He sits down and takes another sip of wine.

“Are you busy next week?” Bruce says suddenly. Clark glances at him. He’s staring into the depths of his wine glass like it holds the secret to stopping crime in Gotham.

“Depends,” she says. “Why are you asking?”

Bruce snorts a little, like he’s laughing at a joke she doesn’t know. He says, “Dick and Barbara are hosting a post-Christmas party on the 30th. I was wondering if you – “

“– if I wanted to go,” she finishes for him. Clark considers him for a long moment. He makes eye contact with her briefly before turning back to his glass. After a moment, he drains the rest of his wine and sets the empty wine glass on the counter. “That sounds really nice,” she says. Bruce looks at her, really looks at her, maybe for the first time this night. She can tell that he’s – surprised, but maybe in a good way.

“Good,” he says, just as Diana wanders into the kitchen, holding a stack of plates.

“Bruce!” she greets him warmly. “I thought I heard the two of you hiding in here. Kal, Lois sent me to put these in the dishwasher.”

Clark takesthem and waves her attempts to help away. “You’re a guest,” she says. Speaking of guests – she sees Bruce’s empty glass sitting on the countertop. “Another?” she asks, raising her own empty beer bottle. Bruce gives her a half-shrug and passes over his wine glass. Clark leaves the room to enter the main room of apartment, where Lois had previously taken the bottle Bruce had brought. Bruce watches her go, an unfamiliar smile on his face.

As she leaves, she hears the rustle of Diana crossing her arms. “She’s married.”

Bruce’s head thunks on the counter. “I _know_ ,” he says.

Clark tears her concentration away from them hurriedly, before she hears something she doesn’t want to hear, and rejoins the party.

: :

Clark has always found something meditative in cleaning.

She’s scouring the apartment for empty bottles, which seem to multiply as the night goes on. The last straggler of the party (Jimmy, of course – she loves that man but he does not know how to hold his liquor) has been bundled into an Uber and sent home.

She starts to sweep the kitchen, which is covered in confetti for some reason, while Lois watches from the couch.

“I don’t mind,” Lois says, out of nowhere. At Clark’s questioning look, she elaborates: “You and Bruce Wayne. I don’t mind.”

Clark is silent for a moment. There’s no use pretending not to know what Lois means; out of the two of them, Lois is the one with the Pulitzers. She knows how to pose a question, and how to get an answer without asking.

“I’ve never thought about it,” Clark says. And that’s – not a lie, not quite. There have been moments, when the two of them are together and she makes Bruce laugh and the whole world stills. But she’s never considered it as a _real_ possibility. She picks up the empty bowl that once held a gallon of Ma Kent’s famous thunderfuck punch and places it in the kitchen sink.

“Clark,” Lois says, then rolls over on the couch and props herself on an elbow to look Clark in the face. She’s smiling, but her tone is serious. “You have so much love for so many people – strangers, most of them, and you would give yourself up for them without a second’s hesitation. You deserve to have people who love you back, as many people as you can find. So. Yes, I don’t mind.”

Clark nods, a little jerkily.

“Besides,” Lois says, settling back down on the cushions with a yawn. “I would cheat on you with Diana in a New York minute. So it’s kind of fair.”

“Hey,” Clark says. “I’m not saying no to that, either.” Lois bursts into giggles – a sign that she’s had too much to drink, too. Lo isn’t generally a giggles person. “Enough of you,” Clark says, tossing a handful of confetti in Lois’s face. Lois brings her hands up to ward off the assault, still giggling.

Clark scoops Lois up into her arms, bridal style, and carries her to the bedroom. “We can talk about all that later,” she says, coming to a halt by the bed. Lois smiles and tucks her head into the crook of Clark’s neck. “Right now,” Clark says, “I am going to put my beautiful wife to bed.”

Lois hums. “Good night, babe,” she says. She was already half-asleep.

“Good night, Lo,” Clark says, kissing her on the forehead. She tiptoed backwards out of the room, turning the light off as she went. She stopped outside the bedroom door, the blue-lit apartment before her. She could figure this – this thing, with Bruce. See if it was going anywhere. If it wasn’t, well, they could handle it. And if it was –

If it was, they could handle that, too.

EPILOGUE.

Bruce waits for Clark on the deck of the lakehouse, watching the dusk-purple sky above him. They don’t have to be at Dick and Bab’s party for another hour and a half, but it _is_ in Blüdhaven and he can’t fly.

“I brought pie,” Clark says, appearing at his shoulder. He very carefully does not jump.

He turns to find her standing there empty-handed. “Pie?”

“Alfred has it,” she offers by way of explanation.

“Ah.” Clark steps next to him and looks out across the lake. Bruce’s got to say, for all the trouble that it can be living in a literal glass house, it’s got one hell of a view.

“You didn’t fly,” he says. It’s an observation, not a question. He’s trying to find the right pattern to fit Clark with, but she’s being remarkably unpredictable.

“No,” Clark says. “I Ubered.”

He throws her a glance. She’s smiling. “Are we going to talk about it?” she asks, grin fading. He doesn’t bother clarifying what ‘it’ is.

“I would prefer not to, no.”

“Hm.” Clark seems to consider that for a moment. The sky has darkened to deep indigo, with a sliver of pink at the horizon. “Well,” she says, then hesitates. “I just wanted to say – that it’s been an honor, working with you. I don’t think I would get half as much done, and done well, if it weren’t for you.”

Bruce nods. “That sounds about right.”

Clark laughs. “You’re a real ass, you know that, right?”

Bruce shrugs, lips twitching into a smile.

“I mean it, though,” Clark says, suddenly serious again. “The two of us, together – we’re fucking legendary.”

“Legendary,” Bruce repeats, trying out the word. He’s surprised to find that he likes it – likes the idea of working with someone, of being partners. It’s been so long since – since Robin, he’s forgotten that he likes working as part of a team.

Clark throws an arm over his shoulders and reaches out into the darkness with the other.

“See?” she says. “They’ll name constellations after us.”

Bruce gives a skeptical hum. Her arm was hot like a brand, looped around his neck. He wonders whether elevated body temperature was a Kryptonian trait, whether he’s extrapolating, whether he just associates Clark with warmth. “I think the constellations are all already named.”

She laughs and tugs him just a little bit closer. “Only the ones that you can see. The others, hidden in the spaces between stars – those are for us. Just for us.”

Bruce looks at her. She’s staring out into the night sky, solemn and still. He can see the stars reflected in her eyes. She turns to look at him. Everything slows until all there is, is him and Clark and the eight inches of air separating them.

The kiss, when it comes, is not a surprise. It still knocks the wind out of him.

Clark steps away, after a moment. Bruce’s eye have slipped shut and he keeps them that way. Clark is still holding onto him, one hand on his left bicep and the other on the back of his neck.

“I’m not – good, at this,” Bruce says, a confession. His eyes are still closed. One hand is stretched out, a clenched fist against the night. “This whole – other people thing. Letting people in.” The fingers of his hand flex out, tension in every line. Moonlight casts him in silver and shadow and Clark thinks that he’s never looked more like _Bruce_ than he does right now.

“You’re my best friend,” she says, because Bruce needs to hear it and she needs to say it. And because it’s true. _Always_ , because it’s true.

_You’re my best friend_ , she says, and for a moment the world is condensed into just this: the two of them, standing close enough that their shoulders touch, and the infinity of the night sky above them.

Alfred interrupts, knocking politely on the glass door. It was time to go; Bruce tugs himself free of Clark’s grasp, unwillingly.

They need to leave, but first – but first –

“Thank you,” Bruce says. The words feel awkward, thick and heavy on his tongue – unused, and left to rust. He’s not sure what he means, but Clark smiles gently at him anyway.

“Of course,” she says, and then: “Always, B.” She reaches out, catches his elbow, and pulls him close. Bruce leans into her warmth.

They step forward together, arm in arm, braced against the cold.

**Author's Note:**

> i'm tenderjock as well on tumblr; if you liked this fic, maybe give me a follow. i'm very into various fandoms, but i'm always down to talk about dc, if only the little corner of it that i know.


End file.
